


the thing with the guy in the place

by ceserabeau



Category: Ocean's Eleven (2001), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, F/M, Gen, Heist, Las Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let me guess, you want to rob a casino?” Scott holds up three fingers and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot upwards. “Three casinos?” </p><p>Or, the Ocean's Eleven AU that no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thing with the guy in the place

**Author's Note:**

> So this got started a long time ago, but now it's finally done. Ocean's 11 is one of my favourite movies of all time.

Scott gets released from jail on a Thursday. It’s raining outside and all he has to his name is the suit he came in wearing, his wedding ring, and a Greyhound ticket to anywhere.

There’s no one there to pick him up. He doesn’t know what he expected – Allison maybe, Stiles with that ugly blue jeep. Instead, there’s nobody and the guard at the gate gives him a sympathetic look as he stands in the lot staring at all the cars which aren’t there for him.

-

He finds Stiles in LA, teaching movie stars how to play cards. It looks like the single most boring job in the entire world. Scott’s mostly just impressed that Stiles is able to focus long enough to get through a game of poker.

“I have good medication,” Stiles says when Scott asks, somewhere between the third and fourth hand. Scott laughs and the others round the table give him funny looks. “Shut up and make a bet already.”

Later, when the game is over and the actors have wandered off to mingle and gossip over who’s doing what movie with who, Stiles pours Scott a glass of whiskey and leans in, says, “I thought you were in Texas.”

“I was,” Scott says, swirling the liquid around in the glass. “But then I got out.”

Stiles nods, starting to shuffle a deck of cards on the table. “And you’re here, why?”

“Got a plan,” Scott tells him, taking a sip. “Might need your help.”

“Let me guess, you want to rob a casino?” Scott holds up three fingers and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot upwards. “ _Three_ casinos?”

Scott lists them to him and Stiles’ hands finally pause in their movements. His reaction plays out across his face: fear, interest, anticipation, until Stiles finally puts the cards down on the felt and holds his hands out imploringly to Scott.

“I believe you when you say you can do,” he says; “But this is definitely one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had.”

Scott just shrugs. “Have you got anything better to do?” he asks and Stiles sighs, glances over at the celebrities chatting quietly in the corner.

“I guess not,” he says, and Scott laughs at his eager grin.

-

Jackson’s house is a monstrosity in the middle of the Nevada desert: ostentatious, to match his personality. It’s been a while since they all saw each other so they have lunch on his patio under the blazing sun, trading stories until Scott finally works himself up to what he really wants to talk about: they want to rob three casinos and are too broke to do it.  

“Are you out of your minds?” Jackson asks. “That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever.”

“That’s why I said,” Stiles tells him, and winces when Scott kicks him under the table.

“Just think about it,” Scott begs. “Seriously, Jackson, please.”

“Not a chance. The security can’t be beaten.” He points his fork at them. “They’ve got cameras, they’ve got watches, they’ve got locks, they’ve got timers, they’ve got vaults – they got enough armed personnel to occupy _Paris_.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but Jackson carries on. “It can’t be done. And I’m not saying that because I think you can’t do it, I mean no one can do it. _Ever_. It’s just not possible.”

Scott looks like he wants to say something, but Stiles puts a hand on his arm placatingly. “You’re right,” he says. He folds his napkin, pushes his chair back to stand. “Thanks for lunch.”

Jackson nods at him. “It was good to see you,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Glad I could talk some sense into you.”

Stiles smiles at him and leads a protesting Scott away. “Give it a second,” he whispers, and sure enough when they’re nearly at the door Jackson calls out to them: “Just out of curiosity, which casinos did you two geniuses pick to rob?”

They both pause, before Stiles shouts over his shoulder: “The Belagio, The Mirage, and the MGM Grand.”

Jackson’s fork clatters to his plate. “Those are Argent casinos.” He stands up, storms over to them. “What do you have against the Argents?”

Scott cocks his head. “What do _you_ have against the Argents?”

Jackson’s face twists in a snarl. “They muscled me out of my own casino. And now they’re going to blow my baby up to put one of their ugly buildings in its place.” He looks between the two of them, eyes narrowing as he sizes them up. “Tell me what your plan is again?”

-

It’s winter in Michigan: 34 degrees, with a thin layer of snow on the ground. It takes Danny ten minutes to answer the door, and when he does the first thing he says is, “What the hell do you two assholes want?”

“Nice to see you too,” Stiles says, but Danny just rolls his eyes.

“Try again, Stilinski.” He eyes the two of them guardedly.  “Well you didn’t come all the way out here for the weather. What do you want?”

Scott smiles, that butter-wouldn’t-melt smile that has won over parents and teachers and cops since Scott could walk, says, “Mind if we come in?”

Surprisingly, Danny lets them and makes them spiked cocoa to drink at his kitchen counter, surrounded by electronics and bits of wiring.

“What’s all this?” Scott asks, shoving the guts of a laptop out of the way.

“I do contract work now,” Danny tells them as he pours rum into their mugs. “It pays well.”

“For the FBI,” Stiles says, taking a sip; “Or so I’ve heard.”

Danny smiles vaguely. “Like I said, it pays _very_ well. And it keeps me on their good side.”

“And what if you weren’t on their good side?” Scott asks. “How would you feel about that?”

The looks Danny fixes him with is interested. “Care to elaborate?”

“We have a plan,” Scott tells him. “A good one. Three casinos; a hundred and fifty million.”

“Vegas?” Danny asks, and Scott nods. “Alright then, I’ll do it.”

“Just like that?” Stiles asks, surprised.

Danny smiles. “Just like that.”

Scott nods, satisfied, and they sit in silence, drinking their drinks, until Stiles points a finger inelegantly at Danny and asks, “Didn’t you used to have a stutter?”

Danny just raises an eyebrow, turns back to Scott. “Why are you still working with him?”

Scott smiles, says, “I don’t know, he just keeps showing up,” and rolls his eyes when Stiles shoves him off the stool.

-

Boyd isn’t hard to track down. In fact, he’s right where Scott left him: dealing cards at some tiny casino in Atlantic City. The air rings with the jangle of slot machines, the rattling of balls spinning round on the roulette table, the chatter of thousands of people wasting their time and money on games they’ll never win.

“Evening, Boyd,” Scott says as he slides onto a chair at the blackjack table, watching the way Boyd’s eyes cut to the young couple at the other end of the table, giggling into each other’s mouths.

“I’m sorry, _sir_ ,” he says, face carefully blank, “I think you have me confused with someone else. Would you like me to deal you in?”

Scott smiles. “Why not?”

When the couple leave after a few hands, Stiles leans forward to rest both elbows on the table. “Danny already called you, didn’t he?”

Boyd gives him a condescending look. “We’re friends. We talk.”

Scott chuckles under his breath. “Of course. He tell you what we’re planning?”

“He might’ve mentioned something.” Boyd lays out another hand, motions smooth and easy. “He said I should tell you I’m in.”

Scott raises an eyebrow at him. “That so?”

Boyd smiles, all teeth. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. Then he taps the table. “C’mon then, McCall, time to bet big.”

Scott grins. “Don’t I always?” he says, and stacks his chips high.

-

“We need someone to do munitions,” Stiles says one afternoon as they’re getting lunch.

Scott nods. “I was thinking the twins.”

Stiles cocks his head at him. “Aren’t we getting them anyway?”

“No, the _other_ twins.” Scott stabs a piece of bacon with his fork. “The Wonder Twins.”

Stiles snorts. “Good luck with that,” he says. “Ethan moved to Brazil with his boyfriend, and Aiden won’t come within a hundred feet of Lydia since they broke up.”

“So we do it without Lydia then.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at him. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says. “How about Kira?” Scott cringes, blushing right up to his hairline, and Stiles chokes on his coffee. “God, seriously? Haven’t you two talked yet?”  

Scott shrugs. “We haven’t really had the chance, you know, what with me leaving her for Allison and then getting arrested.” He trails off, shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth to cover the way he’s wincing.

“It was three years ago. She’s over it,” Stiles tells him. “But if you’re going to be a baby about it, I’ll go talk to her.”

“Thanks man,” Scott says, and Stiles pelts him with blueberries until he shuts his mouth again.

-

There’s this pair working out of a speedway in New York: Isaac and Erica, twins if you believe the stories they tell. They’re six months off the job when Scott shows up to talk to them, and apparently are desperate to work because Erica says, “We’ll do it,” before he even gets to the end of his explanation,

“We’ll think about it,” Isaac corrects, and Erica elbows him in the side.

“We’ll do it,” she says again. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to,” she says to Isaac when he scoffs; “Fixing these rich kids’ go-karts is boring and you know it.”

“Whatever,” Isaac mutters and Erica tackles him to the ground unceremoniously; they’re still tussling when Scott walks away.

“How’d it go?” Stiles asks when he gets back.

Scott smiles. “They’re in,” he says, kicking his shoes off and wandering into the living room where Stiles is making notes on one of the schematics.

“What, they just said yes?”

Scott shrugs. “You know, I got the sense they were having trouble filling the hours.”

-

“So which one are we here to see?” Stiles asks, reaching over to steal some of Scott’s popcorn.

Scott smacks at his hand half-heartedly. “Name’s Malia Tate,” he says, eyes never leaving to stage. “She used to be an Olympic gymnast. Now she just does shows with the Chinese circus.”

Stiles nods. “Okay, but which one is she?” He gestures towards the stage where half a dozen women are moving about on the stage, flipping and twirling to some weird, eerie music.

“Just wait,” Scott says, shoving a handful of food into his mouth; “You’ll know.”

Stiles waits, and waits some more. Then a girl comes out, with slicked back hair and a bright blue leotard. She shimmies her way up the closest pole and it trembles under her weight. Stiles is opening his mouth to say he doesn’t see what all the fuss is about, when she does a back flip off it, landing on the one next to it, and again and again until she’s crossed the entire stage. When she comes down, she grins, bright and feral.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “I see what you’re getting at,” and Scott smirks.

-

Scott sends Stiles to Florida because he’s a big scaredy-cat who won’t admit that he’s terrified of Lydia Martin.

Stiles finds her at a racetrack, drinking lemonade and watching greyhounds sprint in circles from under the brim of her hat. When Stiles slides into the seat next to her, she doesn’t even bother to turn her head.

“I saw you at the paddock,” she says, voice entirely even, “before the second race. You were outside the men’s room when I placed my bet.” She tilts her head to look at Stiles. “I saw you before you even got up this morning.”

Stiles pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and grins at her. “How you been, Lyds?”

She rolls her eyes and _god_ , Stiles has missed her. “Whatever the question is, the answer is no.”

“Oh come on,” Stiles tries, “You’re the best there is.”

Lydia scoffs. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Stilinski.” The gun goes off and she turning her head to watch the dogs fly past. “I’ve got a house now, a mortgage. I’m seeing a nice guy who works for a Fortune 500. I don’t go in for this anymore.” She slurps her lemonade: “I’ve changed.”

“People like us don't change, Lydia,” Stiles reminds her. “We either stay sharp or we get sloppy, we don't change. Are you really trying to tell me you’re not bored out of your mind?”

Her lips purse in a familiar way. “Don’t try to con me, Stiles, I know all your tricks.”

Stiles laughs softly. “I wouldn’t dare.” He stands, casting a long shadow over her. She doesn’t bother looking up. “Just, when you get tired of being a grown up, come find us, okay?”

He walks away to the sound of her sighing.

-

They’re in a sports bar, surrounded by drunk frat boys yelling about whatever game is playing on the many flat screens. It’s too loud and the entire place smells like beer and sweaty teenagers.

“You think we need one more?” Scott asks.

Stiles doesn’t even bother responding, because they’ve already had this conversation a thousand different ways, just leans his head on his hand and keeps watching the game.

“You think we need one more,” Scott says again, more statement than question this time, and _finally_ he’s getting it. “Okay, we’ll get one more.”

-

Chicago is cold, the kind of cold where your fingers feel like they’re going to fall off if you don’t wear proper gloves. Stiles is California born and bred, anything below 65 is too cold for him; Chicago is his own personal icy hell.

It doesn’t matter too much though, because the L is warm and Derek Hale is a pleasure to watch.

He’s easy on the eyes: strong jaw, dark eyes, stubble that Stiles wants to rub his face against. Then the train rocks and across the carriage, Derek slides a wallet smoothly from some businessman’s inside pocket. The man never even looks up from his paper: so the guy’s got talent too, in spades. Good choice Scott.

He slips his card into the wallet when Derek isn’t looking and goes to the bar. He’s halfway through a beer when the door opens slowly, cautiously, and Derek’s standing there, blinking in the bright light.

“Hello Derek,” he says and takes a sip of his beer.

“Who are you?” Derek asks, features twisted into a deep frown.

“A friend of Peter Hale’s.” Stiles waves a plane ticket at him. “You’re either in or you’re out, right now.”

“What is that?”

Stiles smiles; he can tell from the way Derek’s eyes have lit up that he’s caught his attention. “It’s a plane ticket – a job offer.”

Derek slides onto the stool, slips the ticket out from under Stiles hand so smoothly he doesn’t feel a thing. “Why me?” he asks, voice low.

“Peter has a lot of faith in you,” Stiles tells him.

“Uncles are like that,” Derek says and Stiles feels his eyebrows tick up in surprise. Derek scowls at him. “Of course he didn’t tell you. Doesn’t want me trading on his name.”

Stiles shrugs at him. “I can’t pretend that I ever understand why Peter does things, but if you do this job it won’t be you trading on his name; it’ll be him trading on yours.”

Derek gives him a look through his lashes: disbelieving, like he’s confused as to why Stiles is there, why he’s bothering talking to him. It makes Stiles’ heart beat a little faster, because there’s no way someone who looks this good is shy about their skills.

“If you don’t want to do it,” he says, reaching out to put a hand on Derek’s wrist, “We’ll find somebody else who won’t be as good – and you can go back to groping stockbrokers.”

Derek bristles, offended, and his grip on the plane ticket tightens. “I’ll do it,” he grits out, pulling his wrist out of Stiles’ grip with a jerk.

Stiles withdraws his hand with a smirk: hook, line and sinker; he is a con artist after all. “Alright then,” he says, pushing his stool back with a squeak, “I’ll be seeing you in Vegas, Mr. Hale.”

He leaves with a wink and smile, barely catching Derek’s, “I’m looking forward to it,” as he walks way.

-

Scott’s at the bar nursing his drink when heads around the room begin to turn towards the escalators. He knows who it is before he turns, and sure enough it’s Allison, as beautiful as ever, resplendent in a long blue gown, hair pulled up, jewels glittering around her neck. He follows her progress: across the floor, into the restaurant, to the table by the window with a view over the strip, bright lights twinkling below them.  

He sets his glass down carefully on the bar, straightens his cuffs, combs his fingers through his hair, before he finally goes to join her.

“Hi, Ally,” he says as he drops down into the chair opposite. “How are you?”

Allison’s face is shocked, confused: “What are you doing here?” she snaps. “Get the hell out of that chair.”

“It’s good to see you,” Scott says, smiling at her awkwardly. “How are you?”

Allison shakes her head. “I was doing better before you showed up,” she says coldly.

Scott ignores the anger in her voice. “I saw the collection in the museum. It’s amazing, Ally.”

A smile slips onto her face. “I did my best,” she says modestly, and it makes Scott’s heart beat double-time in his chest.

“I know you did,” he says. He glances down, eyes coming to rest on her fingers. “You’re not wearing your ring.”

Allison’s face shutters. “I’m not married anymore,” she says. Scott reaches out across the table, but Allison pulls her hand away, something sad and sorrowful crossing her face. “Don’t,” she says quietly. “Please, Scott, I can’t. Just leave.”

“I came here for you,” Scott tells her softly.

“You’re a liar,” Allison says, “And a thief.”

Scott ducks his head, avoiding her sharp gaze. “I only lied about being a thief.”

Allison scoffs. “As if that makes a difference.” Her hand clenches and unclenches on the table top. “You need to go, Scott. Before someone sees you.”

Scott sighs, scrubs a hand across his face. “Alright,” he says, “For you.” He stands carefully and walks to her, places a hand on her shoulder above the fabric of her dress where the skin is soft and smooth. “I still love you,” he says in a quiet voice, and leaves before he can see her cry.

-

It isn’t until they’re all standing in Jackson’s living room that Stiles feels the rush of adrenaline that he normally associates with doing a job. Looking around at them, at the _team_ , it suddenly seems right. Scott’s got a pleased expression on his face, kind of smug, mostly happy.

He’s most of the way through explaining what their strategy is going to be, when Lydia holds up a hand: “Say we get into the cage,” she says, “And through the security doors, and down the elevator we can’t move, and past the guards with the guns, and into the vault we can’t open –”

“Without being seen by the cameras,” Stiles adds. “Forgot to mention those.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Okay, well, say somehow we do all that. We’re just supposed to walk out of there with a hundred and fifty million dollars in cash on us without getting stopped?”

The room goes silent, every head turning towards them. Stiles watches them all watching him and glances over at Scott, whose mouth is twitching up into a smile.

“Yeah,” Scott says, “Why not?”

-

And the rest, as they say, is history.

**Author's Note:**

> Might end up doing more snapshots from this, but I have a lot of other things to finish first.


End file.
